Playing at Chess
by Jadea
Summary: The Second Task from an unexplored POV


Author: Jadea   
  


Disclaimer: Me in College. Me no own Harry Potter. Me have no money anyway.   
  


Rating: Pg, I suppose.   
  


Summary: The second task from an unexplored POV   
  


_________________________________________   
  


"Look, I found somethi--no. It won't work. It's not powerful enough."   
  


"Damn. So much for that idea."   
  


"Don't swear, Ron."   
  


Like all teenagers, they are not as quiet as they think they are. Huddled in some dusty, forgotten corner of the library; the same area where they have gathered for days.   
  


"Blimey. If I sit in these chairs much longer, I'm going to have the grooves of the seat engraved on my a--"   
  


"RON!"   
  


"Moine, you interrupted me."   
  


"Will you PAY ATTENTION!! We have to find a spell for Harry. The second task is tomorrow!"   
  


"Really? I thought we were researching ways to stay underwater for the sheer thrill of it. Helping Harry, you say? Oh, so that's why we're in the library."   
  


"Ron. Work."   
  


"I have been working. We all have. For SIX HOURS! I just don't reckon it can be done. There's nothing. Nothing. Closest was that thing to dry up ponds and puddles, that drought charm, but that was nowhere near powerful enough to drain the lake."   
  


"There must be something." The mudblood. "They'd never have set a task that was impossible to do."   
  


"They have!" Weasley. A pure blood. Pure as mine. And a muggle lover. "Harry, just go down to the lake tomorrow, right, stick your head in, yell at the merpeople to give back whatever they've nicked, and see if they chuck it out. Best you can do, mate."   
  


Ah. Somehow, Weasley. . .somehow I doubt you'd give that advice. . .if you knew, as I do, what exactly the merpeople are going to 'nick,' as you so bluntly put it.   
  


None of you have the slightest idea, do you?   
  


"I know what I should have done." Potter.   
  


Stupid boy. I guided him last time, I cannot do so again. I have led him, step by step. He has the book. It's right there, in his room, ten feet away from his bed. Dusty and torn no doubt, resting under a picture of Longbottom's darling Mummy and Daddy. Another pureblood.   
  


Frustration gnaws at me. I must not fail.   
  


The first task was fairly easy. One thing Potter can well is fly. Just like his father. But this one. . . .If I didn't hate him already, I do now.   
  


There must be a way. It can't be obvious, not yet, not now. I can not fail my master. Not with Dumbeldore watching. Watching the boy, and his friends. No, this must be subtle. Stealth. Strategy. Like chess.   
  


Like playing at chess. 

". . .She looked pretty grim, though."   
  


The twins. What's this? Potters friends are leaving, promising they will return as soon as possible.   
  


How will he ever find the answer now?   
  


Of course.   
  


McGonnagal.   
  


Unless, by sheer luck, Potter finds the information tonight, he will be unprepared for the second task. No. That cannot happen. My Master does not want it to happen.   
  


Potter has to discover how to survive the Second Task. . .and what, exactly, the "thing he will sorely miss" is. Even if he is at a complete loss, he won't back out, not if he knows his "best mate" is in danger.   
  


Simple. Potter will win the Second Task. He will.   
  


I shall make sure of it.   
  


I must go to the teachers lounge.   
  


_____________________________________________   
  


The water of the lake will doubtless be cold and dark, tomorrow. I watch the flames lick at the corner of the stone fireplace, glowing red fingers licking into crevices. Groping, seeking to escape and destroy. The window offers a view of the lake, where I have just witnessed the exchange of four unconscious hostages to the Merpeople by McGonnagal and Dumbeldore; the Transfiguration teacher will be up here later, doubtless, for her nightcap.   
  


I may hate Minerva McGonnagal, but I have never unerestimated her. She is shrewd, intelligent. Eerily so, even for a Hogwarts Professor. Like Snape.   
  


How I long to take him back to my Lord. To see him cower. Grovel. Yes, grovel, you worm. Traitor.   
  


Bitter juice washes down my throat as I sip from my flask. Moody tastes foul, old. But fiery. I watch the fire.   
  


Oh. There she is. Minerva. Lips pinched, brow furrowed. Worried. Oh, yes, I supposed handing one of your favorite students over to screeching merpeople and watching them dissapear into a cold, black lake would be upsetting. As always her movements are swift, sure. But her hands shake slightly as she lifts the teapot, almost spilling some of the boiling liquid. Ah. More worried then I thought.   
  


She knows, of course, that Potter has not discovered the answer to the egg's clue. All the teachers do. Watching him, pale and nervous. Shifting his hands, drumming his fingers. Gazing at the lake. Watching him. Watching them. The Trio, as the faculty calls them. Hours, days, weekends spent in the library, buried under mountains of books. Typical for the mudblood, but certainly not Potter and Weasley. We know what they're doing--that they are, in fact, violating the rules of the Tournament--Potter is not supposed to receive outside help.   
  


Interesting, then, isnt it, how he came up with the idea for the first task?   
  


But. . .this is Potter. Special Potter. The Boy Who Lived. Exceptions must be made. And so Professor McGonnagal and Dumbeldore pretend that Granger and Weasley are doing their transfiguration homework with Potter in the library.   
  


I spot him, barely, out of the corner of my eyes. The magic one. Sometimes, not even the eyes of an auror can spot a house elf. He's here. Dobby. Time to play.   
  


"Minerva." Gruff voice, slight concern. Moody. I am Moody. "How did it go?"   
  


Tension strung through her frame, lips pressed so tightly together they are little more then a pale line. She gazes at the fire for a minute.   
  


"As best as can be expected. All the hostages are now enchanted, sleeping in the lake. The champions will discover who their hostages are when it is announced tomorrow morning before the start of the task."   
  


Excellent. But not specific enough. The house elf--Dobby--must hear two things: who exactly Potter's hostage is. . .and how to retrieve him.   
  


Think. Minevera sits quietly as I walk over and hand her a flask of brandy. The firelight casts shadows on her face, her harsh lines, and for a moment she looks no older then she did twenty years ago, when she was my professor and I her gifted student.   
  


Oh, Professor, if you could only see the transfiguration I'm capable of now.   
  


"For your tea, Minerva." She still makes me nervous. She and Dumbeldore. "It must be especially difficult for you, as head of Gryffindor house. Not only a champion, but a hostage as well."   
  


She shakes her head, once, fingers curling around the rim of her cup. "Not one hostage. Two."   
  


Now this. . .this I did not expect. The champions. . . .Krum. Fleur. Diggory. And Potter. I know for a fact Potter picked Weasley. . .I helped Dumbeldore cast the truth charm on him. So who. . .   
  


Quick, Minerva, quick. The House elf is gathering up the linen, about to leave.   
  


"Hermoine Granger is Victor Krum's hostage."   
  


Hmmm. Karakoff will not be pleased. The girl is a mudblood. He may be another--a betraying, cowardly rat, but he believes in the blood. . .   
  


The elf has frozen, a flash of wide eyes. Excellent. But still not what I want. I need more.   
  


"And the other hostages?"   
  


She is leaning back in her chair now, rubbing her temples. She looks tired. Good.   
  


"Fleur Delacour chose her younger sister, Gabrielle. Cedric Diggory chose Cho Chang." For some inexplicable reason, a smile flits across her face as she says this. "Victor Krum chose Hermoine Granger, and you already know that Harry Potter's hostage is Ron Weasley."   
  


There.   
  


Unbelievable.   
  


The house elf just dropped the linens. He is staring at McGonnagal, abnormal eyes wide, muttering. "Harry Potter. . .Wheezy. . .Wheezy. .."   
  


Half of my goal has been accomplished. Very soon Harry Potter will know exactly what has been taken from him. . .he has no choice but to try and get it back.   
  


Now. . .this part must be handled skillfully. Delicately. Moves so perfect, so subtle, the opposing side does not even see the trap. Like chess.   
  


Yes, like chess.   
  


"The enchantment was effective, then?"   
  


"Granger and Weasley were anticipating a scolding, and got even more nervous when Dumbeldore arrived. Weasley insisted they were studying for my transfiguration exam next week. That boy is a terrible liar."   
  


The corners of her mouth twitch; for some inexplicable reason she is fighting a smile. Perhaps its the brandy in her tea. "Hermoine and Ronald seemed far more preoccupied with each other then they were for their own safety. Ronald"--she chuckles--"was fairly incensed when I told them she was Krum's hostage, and Ms. Granger seemed very worried for Mr. Weasley, seeing as how Mr. Potter. . ."   
  


Her smile is gone now, the worry has started to seep back into her eyes.   
  


Don't worry, Professor. I'll keep your golden boy safe. . .for this task.   
  


"So, Potter still doesn't know how to survive the lake, eh?"   
  


"No. Spells and charms like that aren't covered until sixth year, and only in the advanced classes. Such a spell would be nearly impossible for him to learn by tomorrow. . ."   
  


"Yet Weasley still volunteered to be his hostage? Even though he knew Potter hadn't solved the task?"   
  


"Yes. Impressive, really. I believe he was more then a little stunned to discover that he was Harry's hostage, and that Hermoine was Krum's."   
  


Casual voice. Gruff. No nonsense. Before the elf leaves, frantically searching for Potter.   
  


Yes, she's relaxed now, breathing deeply. Some of the tension has ebbed from her, no longer sitting upright but recling in her chair, eyes on the fire.   
  


"I wonder what the other champions will use." casual, casual. "Diggory is a Hufflepuff, and a favorite of Sprouts'. Excellent in herbology. Perhaps he'll use Gillyweed."   
  


The house elves ears have perked up, eyes widening again. Disgusting creatures. Hiding, simpering, lurking in the shadows. . .   
  


"Perhaps. Gillyweed or the Bubble-head charm, Diggory's also a favorite of Flitwicks. Besides, I think Gillyweed is more of a potions ingrediant, I don't believe Professor Sprout keeps any. Professor Snape, does, though."   
  


Ah, McGonnagal, if you weren't a wrinkled, ugly old muggle lover, I'd kiss you.   
  


The House elf has lost all composure--rocking feverishly back and forth, wringing its hands. "Potter--Harry Potter--Wheezy--Hostage--Lake!"   
  


Her eyelids are drooping, it has been a long day. A flash of movement. The house elf is gone, the linens forgotten, a white heap on the floor.   
  


I have served the Dark Lord well.   
  


"Tell me, Minerva. . ." Bookend the conversation. "What happens to the hostages should the champions fail?"   
  


"The merpeople will return them after an hour. . .they will be perfectly safe. . .it is the champions who are in danger."   
  


One champion in particular.   
  


Harry Potter.   
  
  
  


* * *

  
  


Moody/Crouch must have been a hell of a chess player, eh?   
  


Feedback will be used to feed poor, starving house-elves. They can never get enough.   
  


  
  


  
  



End file.
